


Make Love Your Goal

by lionswench



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternative Universe - WW1 Era, Alternative Universe - Women's football, Apologies, Eventual Smut, F/M, Happy Ending, Inspired by Real Events, Oblivious Brienne of Tarth, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Soft Jaime Lannister, That's soccer, To An Extent, not American football
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:48:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27370699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionswench/pseuds/lionswench
Summary: When the arrogant, widely-reviled and recently-relieved war veteran Jaime Lannister starts pulling the reins at his father's factory, he finds himself tiptoeing around the ire that munitionette Brienne Tarth seems to reserve only for him.Careful to contain the explosive potential between the two of them, Jaime gradually begins to win Brienne over with a little help from the beautiful game. If a war can momentarily cease for a bit of football, surely a bit of workplace bickering can too, right?A retelling of the history of Dick, Kerr Ladies FC with slightly less football, and many more feelings.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 40
Kudos: 109





	1. Judas

**Author's Note:**

> ok, hi, hello, thank you for taking the time to even consider reading my highly self-indulgent fic.
> 
> After existing as a (mostly) silent observer in this fandom for some years now, I'm finally beginning to come out of my shell a bit and thought it was probably about time that I wrote something for my OTP. This dynamic has been bouncing around my head for many months and, having sat down to write the first couple of chapters, it brings me so much joy to finally merge my favourite characters with my favourite sport. This type of story has been done a hundred times over so I don't expect mine to stand out in any way whatsoever, but I simply _had_ to write it for the sake of my own sanity. I'm a tiny bit obsessed with the history of women's football in Britain - particularly the way in which it fully took off while the men were away during WW1 - and I'm so excited to explore this through the lens of my two most dearly-beloved characters in all existence.
> 
> Any historical inaccuracies are mine alone. Thanks again for reading!! x

Brienne Tarth trudged her way through the soggy leaves underfoot; the earthy hues of terracotta and umber a somewhat unnecessary reminder that yet another unpredictable English Autumn was well and truly in full swing.

Bracing herself against the harsh winds of the early morning, she swiftly sent her thanks to whatever god was listening that at least the torrential rains of recent weeks had finally begun to dwindle into a more forgiving, gentle drizzle, though she could not help but think bitterly that any god with any real benevolence would have put an end to the downpours one day sooner.

_Oh, sweet brother…_

Not 24 hours earlier, Brienne had stood across from her father in the howling gales and relentless rain as, together, they had returned their brave Galladon to the earth – ashes to ashes, dust to dust – his otherwise unremarkable coffin draped in the colours of the union flag: an acknowledgement of his service. A testament to his untimely sacrifice.

He was not the first man to fall during the Great War, nor, Brienne knew, would he be the last – but that did nothing to change the reality of having already experienced all of her _lasts_ with him: her brother; her best friend.

She’d bickered with him over who was the stronger of the pair of them for the last time. She’d laughed at his hilariously unfunny jokes for the last time. She’d received her very last postcard from him in the trenches…

All those stories of his no-doubt exaggerated heroics that he’d been saving to tell her face to face were eternally lost. She would never swell with pride to hear another tale of his bravery. She would never weep to read of his fear again. All of it was done. Over. Finished.

But at least now she knew now for certain.

At one point Brienne could never have believed in her wildest daydreams that confirmation of her dear brother’s death would bring her nothing short of the most overwhelming relief imaginable, but that was before she knew the agonising, immutable torment of the indefinite and cruelly-uncertain MIA status.

Missing was somehow worse than dead. _Missing_ made one hope.

It was _death_ that promised relief. Death, ironically, meant the _end_ of a family’s suffering. The beginning of a new, hugely-emptier life.

The Tarths had been lucky: Galladon’s body had been found, recovered, and repatriated.

Other families would never know such peace, and Brienne felt apologetically guilty for grieving a man whose grave she could blessedly find comfort in visiting each day. Other men would never be laid to rest; those men had given their lives for a country to which they would never return, and their families would always hope – fruitless, foolish, _futile_ hope– that their sons, brothers, fathers, and husbands might somehow have survived... That their disappearance might all just be a result of some trivial miscommunication… That they might somehow be on their way back home, alive and well.

But the war was harsh, and returning home was in fate’s hands alone.

Fate _hadn’t_ been on Galladon’s side.

There was nothing Brienne wanted to do more than to wallow in her grief for a few more days – no amount of tears shed in her brother’s memory, she knew, would ever be enough – but the rational part of her said that she needed to get back to normality as soon as possible. She knew deep down that the only way she could ever begin to adapt to a world without Gal – a world she felt desperately and helplessly ill-equipped to deal with – was to stand up tall like the Tarth she was, and face the bleak future head on.

And so Brienne took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and plastered a faux smile on her face before turning the knob of the factory door, ready to face the mundane monotony of another day in the life of a munitionette. A familiar monotony she knew would bring her some deceiving semblance of comfort in her fragile state of being.

“Morning, chuck.” Catelyn Stark smiled in surprise as Brienne began to shrug her coat off. Her kind eyes crinkled sympathetically in the corners as she continued, “I didn’t expect you back for another couple of days at least.”

That universal tone of sympathy was beginning to grate on Brienne now that the funeral had passed, and her smiley pretence faltered a little at the look of concern in Catelyn’s eyes. “I’ve already done my share of grieving, Cat,” Brienne explained. “I’ve mourned him for months now, and it’s… It’s almost like I can finally breathe again.”

Cat reached up to squeeze Brienne’s shoulder. Her sympathetic gaze picked at Brienne’s heart, and Brienne had to blink back a sudden urge to cry. “Still… You’re entitled to compassionate leave, you know?”

“No.” That wasn’t an option for Brienne. She shook her head defiantly, willing her threatening tears away. “I think the best thing for me is to keep myself distracted. The factory is the best place for me right now… I need to be with company.”

Catelyn nodded in understanding. “Just as long as you’re alright, dear. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you yesterday, I couldn’t find anybody to take Rickon off my hands on a Sunday, and I didn’t think it appropriate to bring a wailing baby.”

“No, don’t be silly, Catelyn! I know you’d have been there in any other circumstances.” Brienne smiled a watery smile. “The flowers were a lovely touch. Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure, dear. You’ll have done him proud yesterday, I’m sure. Sansa told me it was a beautiful service.”

“It was,” Brienne agreed. “Aside from the weather.”

“Typical northern weather, eh?” Catelyn rolled her eyes. “Can’t let us have anything nice.” She smiled in an obvious attempt to lighten the mood.

Brienne laughed. “That sounds like something Gal would have said.”

Catelyn’s smile widened. “He’s still with you, you know? He’ll always be with you… right in here,” Catelyn said, placing a hand over her own heart. “Now, I don’t want to make you upset, so I’ll hug you this once and then I vow not to say any more on the matter unless you wish to talk about it, okay?”

“Okay.” Brienne welcomed Catelyn’s motherly embrace and held onto her tightly for a moment, enjoying the comfort, before she shot back as though she’d seen a ghost.

A tall, blonde ghost.

_Galladon._

As Brienne tried to calm her now-racing heart, Catelyn followed her gaze. “Ah, yes. _That_ must be our new supervisor.”

“New supervisor?” Brienne repeated feebly, her eyes squinting in the direction of the masculine figure. On closer inspection, the man was not nearly tall enough, nor broad enough, to be Galladon, and this man’s hair was much more like spun gold than that of the Tarth siblings’ straw-like yellow; artfully curled, as opposed to limp and thin. It wasn’t Gal. Of course it wasn’t. Gal had passed. This man was just another cruel reminder.

Brienne took a deep breath while Catelyn remained entirely oblivious to her devastating case of mistaken identity.

“By all accounts, a very _handsome_ new supervisor, if I’m not mistaken,” Catelyn said with a small, conspiratorial smile.

Brienne blushed automatically, cursing herself as she did. It was nothing short of _embarrassing_ that just the thought of working alongside someone with a halfway decent face was enough to send her into a minor bout of panic. The factory was usually a safe space: her colleagues were either female, or males who were much too young or much too old to be of any romantic interest to her. Men of Brienne’s age were away at war.

Though her father had been especially eager to see Brienne married off by now despite her less than favourable appearance, the war had conveniently saved her a lot of hurt, rejection, and subsequent humiliation on that front.

“Handsome.” Brienne tested the word on her tongue, an awkward laugh escaping her lips as though she felt she had no right to utter such a word. “Well, I’m sure some of the girls will be thankful for such a distraction.”

Brienne, however, was not. Though she appreciated a handsome face as much as any of the other girls in the factory, she felt unsuited to any kind of commentary on another person’s looks with a face as unsightly as hers. In all her measly nineteen years, she had had a less than pleasant history with men beyond those familial ties to her father and brother, and she doubted her future relations would be any brighter. Brienne was not the type of girl who could be desired, though she longed for that connection – that _intimacy_ – with someone she could desire in return.

But intimacy, romance, adoration… none of that was on the cards for her.

_No man in their right mind…_

Gods, she’d been mocked, taunted, and even physically pushed around by men (before she’d retaliated and put them back in their place) because of her ugliness; there was _no_ hope for her. And so she found she’d rather vanish into thin air than find herself involved in the kind of communal swooning that other girls often engaged in. Standing too close to anybody with a pretty face filled her with an existential despair; it was much safer for her to admire beauty from afar, where she could spare her dignity, and her feelings.

_Besides_ , this so-called handsome new supervisor was no doubt older than even Catelyn: all men under 40 had a duty to be on the front line, not supervising a bunch of women on an assembly line. Brienne’s shoulders dropped in relieved realisation.

She needn’t worry about being rejected by an older, most-likely-married man. A man closer to her father’s age than her own was fine. Handsome in a _fatherly_ way was fine. Harmless.

The chances of Brienne falling at her new supervisor’s feet were slim to none; she was safe.

And before she could even begin to worry about getting through the stilted rigmarole of politely introducing herself to him, he had already begun to make his way farther down the corridor in the opposite direction, relieving her of that burden.

“I do believe I remember him from school. My sister’s age, I think,” Catelyn said. “Tall, isn’t he?”

“I think I have an inch or two on him still,” Brienne bragged, causing Catelyn to let out a melodious laugh. The sound of it unlocked something in Brienne too, and the two women laughed together until Brienne felt almost breathless, delirious in her raw emotional state. Eventually, pulling herself together, she smiled broadly at Catelyn. “Thanks for everything, Cat. I suppose I’d better get to work.”

“Always so eager to work. Well, you know where I am if you need me,” Catelyn replied with a maternal warmth. “Take care, love.”

When Brienne swung the door open to the women’s changing room, she was not surprised to find that, as always, she was the first of the day crew to arrive. A handful of the overnight ladies were wearily preparing to go home after their shifts, and she accepted their sympathies with grace as one by one they departed. Then she had the changing room to herself. Just as she liked it.

Brienne quickly undressed down to her smallclothes – eager to be dressed and ready by the time the next lady walked in – and pulled the heavy drill fabric of her charcoal grey smock over her unremarkable chest, before stepping into the matching trousers she took great satisfaction in wearing. She might have hated a lot about her own appearance, but Brienne wouldn’t change her height for anything. It made her a _Tarth_. And though a lot of the women wore dresses in the factory, Brienne had been fascinated by the opportunity to wear a pair of trousers – especially a pair that were tailored to fit the towering length of her own legs.

Though Brienne’s first role of the day was to essentially fulfil the role of a glorified mule by lugging empty shell after empty shell across the factory floor, she spent the remainder of her days filling these shells with highly explosive lyddite, and, more recently, trinitrotoluene, and so she was also required to wear a boiler suit – which, Brienne knew, did very little for her already shapeless figure – and a pair of wooden clogs to prevent any unwanted sparks. Finally, she tucked her lacklustre hair into the unflattering mob cap, which only attracted further attention to her broad, high cheekbones, and her twice-broken nose.

She quickly patted herself down to double check she carried nothing illicit, before heading out of the door at the other side of the changing room and into the cold atrium. Almost immediately, she was pulled into a hug by someone much shorter than her.

“I heard you’d come in but I didn’t expect to see you so soon after the f-funeral!” Brienne’s sweet, young friend Podrick Payne cried. “Oh, Miss Tarth. How are you?”

Brienne pulled back to look at the boy apprentice. At fifteen years old, Pod was turning into a fine young lad, and Brienne was fiercely protective of him. “How many times do I have to tell you, Pod? It’s Brienne.” She smiled broadly at him, baring her uneven teeth, secure in the knowledge that Pod had never once judged her by her looks. “I’m as okay as I can be given the circumstances. Thanks for coming yesterday, though. I can’t tell you how much it meant to me that you were there.”

Podrick smiled boyishly. “I thought you might do with a f-friendly face.” He blushed at his own words, and Brienne smiled back at him encouragingly; one of her favourite things about Pod was that he blushed perhaps as often as she did, and it was sweetly endearing how often he outwardly displayed his fondness for her. Many of the other munitionettes didn’t have much time for the boy, but Brienne had been especially thankful for his friendship over the hardship of recent months.

“Well, let’s get to it then, shall we? Those shells won’t shift themselves!”

“Certainly not,” Pod agreed, taking three steps to keep up with Brienne’s strides.

“Perhaps we’ll find some time this week to fit in what I mentioned a while back,” she pondered aloud.

“What? _Teaching_ me?”

Brienne nodded. “I think it’s about time you know how to fill the damned things considering how many of them you work with on a daily basis. Don’t you?”

“Gods, I’d love to! Th-thank you!”

“I can’t _promise_ it, Pod, but I’ll do my best to fit it in. You’re a hard worker and you’re wasted in this place.”

Pod beamed at her, his cheeks rosy, as she pushed open the door to the factory floor. Together, they reported to the clock-in desk, before beginning to make their way towards the back where the empty shells were stored.

“Brienne! Podrick!” They turned at the sound of their voices. “Over here,” cried Catelyn Stark from where she stood beside who Brienne could only assume was their new supervisor.

Brienne gestured with her head to Pod that he should follow her, but the closer they got, the more Brienne’s cheeks _burned_.

The man stood before her wasn’t just attractive… he was godlike. Unreasonably beautiful. And _young_ , too. As it turned out, their new supervisor wasn’t handsome in a fatherly way at all, but in a way that made Brienne almost _want_ to swoon like all of the other girls. She doubted she could ever lay eyes on a finer man.

As she approached with Pod in tow, his eyes flitted between the two of them with an absurd kind of smile on his face as though he were enjoying a private joke, and, embarrassingly, Brienne felt the breath leave her lungs. The perfect symmetry of his face was not going to be good for her wellbeing.

That vision of divine perfection, however, was short-lived, because then he opened his mouth to speak. “I thought I was supervising munition _ettes_ ,” he uttered, in a deep, velvety voice. He looked Brienne up and down dismissively, before turning to Catelyn. “Where are all the women hiding?”

Brienne immediately felt her face redden, but she was so furious that a complete stranger would dare to speak to her like that that words failed her.

“Jaime, this is Brienne. _She_ is one of our most integral team members,” Catelyn told him after shooting an apologetic look Brienne’s way. Brienne finally dared to look back at the rude man. She had been right. She _did_ have a couple of inches on him, and she used them to her advantage as she glared down her crooked nose at him. Her anger flared more when he smirked at her again, raising an eyebrow as he looked her up and down appraisingly.

“And this is Jaime Lannister,” Catelyn continued her introductions.

Lannister _._

_Oh._

Realisation washed over Brienne, and her eyes flitted down to his right arm where, sure enough, she found a wooden prosthetic in place of a hand. Suddenly, it all made sense. The younger-than-expected man wasn’t at war because he wasn’t _fit_ for war. Physically, or in nature. Not after what Brienne had read in the papers anyway.

“That’s _Mr_ Lannister to you, thank you, Miss…” He trailed off, narrowing his eyes at her as he noticed her gaze fixated on the end of his arm.

“Tarth,” Brienne managed to utter through gritted teeth.

“Tarth.” He repeated it as though the word left an unpleasant taste on his tongue. She could hardly believe a _war criminal_ of all people was talking to her in apparent disgust as if he had any leg to stand on. “And you, boy? Who are you?” Jaime fixed his beguiling green eyes on Podrick, who squirmed nervously under his watchful gaze.

“P- Podrick, sir. Podrick P-Payne.” Brienne often cursed the gods for giving the poor boy that stutter at the best of times, but particularly now that this jerk of a man was seemingly searching for faults in the two of them. “Or just P-Pod, sir,” he continued. “Wh-whatever you p-prefer.”

“P-Pod?” Mr Lannister repeated him. “Is that with two Ps?”

Brienne momentarily stared at him in stunned disbelief. “Does Judas have two Js?” she managed to offer rather pathetically in Pod’s defence.

“Judas?” Brienne was pinned into place by her new supervisor’s suddenly hostile gaze. “No. You must have misheard me. My name’s _Jaime. Mr Lannister_ to you, woman, and you’d do well to keep that tongue of yours still in future.”

Brienne couldn’t take the heat of his glare any longer; lowering her eyes, she watched him fiddle with his prosthetic hand almost nervously. When she finally looked back up to him, he looked as though he were daring her to comment on it. She wouldn’t.

He cleared his throat almost uncomfortably. “Now, I’m almost certain my father isn’t paying you to stand around and gossip all day. Don’t you have a bloody Mark IV tank or two to lug along over those gargantuan shoulders of yours? Wouldn’t want to upset your new supervisor at the first opportunity now, would you?” He raised a perfect eyebrow in challenge.

Brienne was about to retort with something equally as vitriolic, but the look on Catelyn’s face told her it wouldn’t be to her benefit. Catelyn nodded at her briefly before turning to the man at her side. “Perhaps we should get a move on, Mr Lannister. There’s still plenty more of the factory yet to see before the rest of the girls arrive. I’ll talk to you later, Brienne, Podrick.”

Brienne dared to take one last look at Mr Lannister, whose face twisted quickly into another mocking smile, winking once at her before he turned and left them.

“By the gods, Podrick, I don’t think I’ve ever met a more insufferable man in all my life,” Brienne huffed in annoyance.

“I suppose he means well,” Pod said in his defence.

“Don’t,” Brienne said abruptly. “Don’t you dare jump to his defence, Pod. He doesn’t deserve it. Don’t you know who he is?”

“No?”

“Jaime _Lannister_ ,” she said dramatically, as though her delivery might prompt Pod’s memory. When he continued to look at her blankly, she sighed. “He killed his own _General_ , for gods’ sake, Pod. In cold blood. That’s why he’s here and not at war. Didn’t you see his hand?”

Pod’s eyes widened. “Oh! _The_ Jaime Lannister? G-Gods, I’ve heard about him but I hadn’t made that connection. Surely not. He looks too h-handsome to be a killer.”

“Handsome or not, Pod, he’s a dishonourable man.” Brienne could scarcely believe that such a flawless face could belong to somebody so innately evil, but then her own face was a walking example of the disparate link between good looks and the good in one’s heart.

“You’d do well to stay out of his way. We all should,” she warned. “He’s not the type of man you want to get on the wrong side of at all

Then, more to herself than to Pod, she muttered righteously, “I’m not sure I like him one jot.”


	2. Sparks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As it's Remembrance Sunday here in England, I thought it might be appropriate to write a little something for my WW1 fic.  
> (It _is_ only a little something too; the rest of the chapters I have planned will most likely be much longer than this one!)  
> I thought it might also help to include a photo to help you imagine the size of the shells Brienne has to carry about every day. 

Despite her relentless prayers, Brienne was disappointed to find that the nightmare of the previous day had not, in fact, been a figment of her imagination, but reality. Sure enough, Jaime Lannister – the man who’d not only made the local but the _national_ headlines for weeks on end after cruelly and unfathomably disposing of his own superior General Targaryen – was prowling the factory floor. Sharp-tongued and cold-eyed, he embodied an effortlessly-disarming dichotomy between charm and arrogance. Men like him – not that she’d met another of quite his ilk - were a walking insult to the likes of Brienne. He’d snapped at her, he’d mocked her, and then he’d winked at her; all of these things had drawn her to him even despite her strong disapproval of everything he stood for.

Brienne hated him.

Ignoring him, she clocked herself in, defying the part of her that suddenly couldn’t think of anything she’d rather do less than stick around in such close proximity to him on the off-chance he might strike up a conversation with her.

Marching defiantly past him, her gaze firmly fixed on the back wall, she made her routine walk over to where the empty shells were stored. Brienne’s tactic was always to shift the heaviest of the shells to the workbenches first to ensure she didn’t expend all of her energy on the slightly lighter ones, which she subtly tended to leave for Podrick.

At 70lbs when empty, many of the other ladies tired more easily than did Brienne when it came to lifting the shells, and so she’d been lumbered with the task more or less ever since she was first employed at the factory. To show for it, Brienne had biceps the size of which plenty of men – plenty of _soldiers_ – would no doubt be envious, and, consequently, she routinely hid her arms away by wearing unflattering men’s shirts, which tended to be a better fit around her unusually broad shoulders anyway. She took up more space than anybody she knew, and she hated every second of it.

Bending her knees, Brienne hoisted the first of the empty shells into her arms and began to walk it over to the cleaning benches, resolutely looking everywhere but in the direction of her new adversary.

“I’m surprised you never got called up yourself, Tarth.” Lannister’s deliciously deep voice echoed across the as yet otherwise empty factory floor. “Didn’t you ever consider signing up? With a shape like that, not a soul would suspect you were a woman.”

She’d heard worse before, of course, but his words stung nonetheless. The two of them were the only folk about, and Brienne briefly wondered whether she’d get away with it should she launch the shell in the direction of his offensively pretty head.

Instead, she traipsed her way past him, determined to ignore his japes. When she reached the shell’s destination, she gently lowered it onto the surface of the workbench, and turned to discover that Lannister had followed her. _Of course he had_. She looked at him expectantly, determined to keep a neutral expression on her face so as not to give him any kind of satisfaction.

“I meant no offence, Miss Tarth. I was truly impressed by your brute strength yesterday.” He folded his arms smugly as he leant against the workbench, his wooden prosthetic sitting awkwardly atop his left elbow crease. “It was a pleasant discovery to find not just strength in a woman, but _stamina_ too,” he said, smirking. “You know, I bet you could shift three of them at once if you put your back into it.”

“I’m a _woman_ , not a bloody packhorse!” Brienne snapped unthinkingly in retaliation, immediately cursing herself for responding at all. “Besides,” she continued, “I’d like to see _you_ try to keep up with me.”

He shook his head with a sigh. “It was supposed to be a compliment, you obstinate girl. We got off on the wrong foot yesterday, and this petty back and forth is not particularly the type of working relationship I want to have to deal with. As your supervisor, I’m proposing – no, _demanding_ – a truce. Let’s start afresh.” He held his prosthetic out as if he meant for Brienne to shake it, but she wasn’t for taking it. It might not be the flesh hand with which he’d actually committed the infamous atrocity, but it was close enough that Brienne could not bring herself to make contact with it.

A wounded look flickered briefly onto Lannister’s face, but he quickly composed himself as he pulled his hand back. “I see,” he said. “If that’s how you’re going to be then we’ll just ha–”

“Is that a silk tie?” Brienne blurted out.

He looked down at himself and a proud, leonine smile appeared on his face. “Why, yes. Yes, it is. A rather pricey one too, Miss Tarth,” he remarked smugly. “You know, I’m surprised you have the eye for such fi–”

Brienne grabbed him by the arm and dragged him swiftly across the factory floor before she even knew what she was doing.

“What the–”

“Take it off,” Brienne demanded as soon as the door had swung shut behind them, her breathing heavy and uneven. _Damn fool_.

“Excuse me?” he returned, arching an eyebrow suggestively. He turned to face her properly, smirking as he pushed a loose curl behind his ear. “I didn’t suspect it would have _quite_ that effect on you, but if you–”

“Take. It. Off.” Brienne spoke through gritted teeth as she glared at him, willing her cheeks not to betray her. “It’s a safety hazard, for gods’ sake!” she hissed.

“Oh, sweetling,” Lannister murmured, dramatically placing his prosthetic over his heart as he stepped further into her personal space. “I had no idea you were so concerned about my safety, forgiv–”

“It’s not _your_ safety I’m concerned about, you arrogant fool. And this is no time for your insolence. I’m not trying to pick a fight with you, but you could set the _whole factory_ alight, sir,” Brienne insisted, finally meeting his eyes. She was relieved to see he actually looked somewhat abashed at his own carelessness.

_Well, at least he has some capacity for remorse._

“Silk’s prone to static,” she elaborated, thankful he hadn’t yet attempted to brush the ordeal off as if it were nothing, “and we’re surrounded by _highly-_ explosive materials. The slightest of sparks can, and _will_ , wipe us out. Now, I know you’re not particularly averse to explosive-foul-play and getting blood on your hands, but I’d like to keep mine clean, thank you very much!”

No matter how many times she replayed it in her head, Brienne could not fathom why she had said that.

It surprised her as much as it enraged him.

Stepping impossibly closer, Lannister’s words were barely louder than a whisper. “You’d better watch your tongue, Tarth,” he warned, “unless you want to find yourself a mere serving wench at a pub with no patrons and barely a half-penny to your name. I could very easily terminate your contract right away.”

Brienne lowered her head in shame. “My apologies, sir. That was uncalled for. I– I swear… I won’t speak of it again.”

“You won’t,” he agreed darkly, his tone laced in the threat.

The two of them stood there for a moment in silence: Brienne unsure whether she’d been dismissed; Lannister well and truly glued to the spot in his chastisement. She tried to meet his gaze to apologise more thoroughly, but his was staunchly fixated on the ground as he raised his left hand, awkwardly beginning to pull at his tie.

Letting out a series of increasingly frustrated huffs and sighs, it quickly became apparent that his efforts were doing more to tighten it about his neck than to remove it.

Brienne looked at him uncertainly for a moment. Then, her hand was on his, halting his fruitless attempt.

“Perhaps if I…?”

Though she’d trailed off, he understood her intention. Continuing to avoid her gaze, he nodded stiffly once and lowered his own hand in defeat. She took a timid step closer to him and immediately succeeded in loosening the knot, trying hard not to think about the fact that this was the closest she’d ever stood to a man to whom she was not related – certainly the closest she ever _would_ stand to a man this beautiful – and failing miserably to control those thoughts as she felt his hot breath ghost over her hand.

It all felt bizarrely intimate.

“It _is_ a, uh, lovely tie,” she murmured, trying to fill the agonising silence. “Very nice… Perhaps better suited to a fancier occasion, though.” She finally pulled it free from around his neck and carefully folded it in her hands. “Here.” She held it out to him.

“My thanks,” he muttered begrudgingly. When he reached to grab the tie from her, he grabbed her whole hand in his left and held onto it as though he were pleading. “Listen, I… Please don’t think badly of me over this. It was an _honest_ mistake. I swear I would nev–”

“No,” said Brienne, waving his apology away with her free hand. “Forget it. Forget I said anything. It was cruel of me.”

“I’ll be more careful in future.” He squeezed her hand and waited for her to meet his gaze. “I promise.”

Brienne nodded at him, well aware that her burning cheeks – almost as hot as his hand on hers – must be painted an unsightly scarlet at this point. “I know it was an honest mistake, sir. I won’t tell a soul about it, don’t worry.”

He smiled at her. Not one of his arrogant smirks, but a genuine smile so disarmingly beautiful that Brienne’s breath hitched at the back of her throat. “Our secret, Miss Tarth?” he proposed.

“Sure,” she said a little breathlessly, unable to prevent herself from smiling back.

“Does that mean we have our truce?”

“I think we’ll have to work on that, Mr Lannister, don’t you?” Brienne replied, absurdly, in an almost teasing tone of voice as she gently pried her hand from his, leaving him holding his tie and looking at her through his thick lashes as though he were trying to piece together some kind of particularly tricky puzzle.

Finally, he nodded. “Back to work then, wench,” he instructed, moving to hold the door open for her. Then, for the second time in less than 24 hours, he winked at her. “I’ll see you around.”

As soon as the door swung closed to create the much-needed barrier between them, Brienne’s hands shot up to cup her own blazing cheeks. It surprised her how easy it could potentially be to _like_ Jaime Lannister despite everything she knew about him, and it terrified her to discover that she was in no way immune to his godly charms.

All he’d done was hold her hand, but no man had done so before him and it had awakened the romantic desires she’d repressed for so long.

But, as she silently told herself, it was the _feelings_ she longed for, not Jaime Lannister. She would not allow herself to confuse the two going forward. Jaime Lannister was her supervisor – and a _war criminal,_ for gods’ sake – and, as she’d told Pod not a day earlier, “handsome or not”, she’d do well to remember that he was certainly not a man who could be trusted.

 _He’s toying with me_ , she thought, pre-emptively protecting herself from any future mockery, _and I will not stand to be a player in whatever twisted little game he has planned for me._

No. Their truce would simply have to wait.


	3. Contempt

“Morning, Arya,” said Brienne cheerily, placing a shell in front of the youngest Stark girl ready for painting. “You’re unusually early today.”

“Oh, Brienne, I just couldn’t seem to settle last night with all the excitement! I arrived home to a letter from Jon: my first in months!”

“That’s wonderful news,” Brienne remarked. She forced a smile onto her face, hoping it would not betray the hurt she felt. _Yet another reminder of you, Galladon. I just can’t seem to escape it all._ “How goes it out there? Did he have much to say for himself?”

“Why, yes. And, gods, did he have a tale to tell! How I wish I were out there fighting with him. It sounds much more exciting than painting shells all day long.” Arya gestured to the industrial-sized bucket of paint and array of various paintbrushes before her to emphasise her point.

“Your job’s just as important as his is, remember,” Brienne tried to reassure her. “If not more so.”

Arya rolled her eyes at Brienne, clearly unconvinced. But painting the shells was, in fact, a highly imperative job of utmost importance in the factory. Before any of the shells could be filled with the explosive _lyddite_ , Arya and Sansa Stark (amongst other younger members of the workforce) were trusted with the task of ensuring that all shells were thoroughly cleaned and very carefully painted to prevent even the slightest contact between the extremely reactive picric acid and the metal casing of the shells.

“Painting is _dull_ ,” said Arya, her voice doused in distaste for the job. “And, whilst I’m stuck in here impersonating the world’s most underpaid and underskilled artist, Jon’s out gallivanting with the _Germans!_ ”

“I’m not quite sure I’d call it gallivanting,” Brienne replied.

“But that’s exactly what it sounds like! Jon has a German _friend_ now,” Arya almost bragged. “They meet frequently.”

“Well, I never… But they’re the enemy, Arya. We’re at war with them!”

“Not with Tormund, it seems. That’s the fellow’s name,” Arya explained. “Jon wrote that he was out on patrol when he noticed an injured soldier whom he stopped to help. German, of course. You know what Jon’s like.”

Although Arya rolled her eyes, her face lit up in fondness of her half-brother.

“Whilst taking the injured soul to the nearest dressing station to get cleaned up, this Tormund offered to take some of the wounded man’s weight, and so they ended up aiding him together. The gods know only Jon could befriend the enemy so easily.”

“Sounds about right,” said Brienne. “Still, he ought to be wary. It might all too easily have ended badly for him.”

“Too friendly for his own good at times,” Arya agreed. “But it seems to have paid off for him this time, at least. Tormund shared some ale with Jon one night, Jon with Tormund the next, and the pair of them get on like a house on fire, or so Jon wrote.”

Brienne couldn’t help but bring Galladon to mind. If he’d ever befriended an enemy soldier, he’d never mentioned it to her. But she could so clearly imagine him full of life, a belly full of ale, telling terrible jokes, and laughing away with just about anybody. The thought of interacting with the enemy was almost absurd to Brienne, but with Galladon… he befriended people faster even than Brienne could repulse people. Perhaps he had made friends Brienne would never learn about. Perhaps there were whole facets of Galladon’s brief time in the army that would never come to light.

The thought devastated her.

“Well, I’m happy to hear he’s keeping in high spirits.”

“Oh, have you been telling Brienne about the letters?” Brienne turned to see Sansa addressing her younger sister.

Sansa was a lovely young lady whose hopeful heart reminded Brienne of her own, though their countenances could not be more dissimilar. Where Brienne’s nose was crooked, Sansa’s sat daintily delicate between her ever-rosy cheeks. Brienne knew all too well that her own cheeks were messily freckled at best, and embarrassingly red and splotchy at worst. Despite their differences in physiognomy, though, Brienne loved Sansa too dearly to be envious of her more fortunate looks – even if she often felt the gods were getting off on mocking her whenever the two of them stood beside one another.

“I’ve heard a great deal about Jon’s unlikely new comrade,” Brienne remarked.

“And Robb’s new companion too? Isn’t it exciting?” Sansa saw the blank expression on Brienne’s face, and continued, “How did you forget to mention _that part_ , Arya? Robb’s engaged!”

“ _Engaged_?” Brienne repeated, astounded. She could not imagine any man finding the time to court whilst otherwise occupied on the frontline. “To whom?”

“A French lady called Jeyne,” replied Arya, turning to assess the shell before her. Sickly sweet tales of romance had never been her favoured topic of conversation.

“Oh, but, Brienne…” Sansa paused to place her hand over her heart. “He referred to her as his _sweetheart_ throughout the letter. Isn’t that romantic? And he couldn’t help but share some of his hopes and wishes for their life together when all of this is over. Mum and I are dizzy with excitement. We simply cannot wait to start planning the ceremony for them.”

“Gosh, that _is_ exciting news,” Brienne gushed. Although her own hopes for love were futile, she was just as much a romantic at heart as was Sansa, and it always pleased her to hear of others’ good fortune in the name of love. “Send Robb and his betrothed my congratulations, won’t you?”

“Of course I will. I simply can’t believe it! My brother is to be wed! I can hardly believe I’ll have another sister, Brienne,” Sansa exclaimed, whilst Brienne was alerted to a sudden pain that she could only liken to how she imagined a knife to the heart might feel.

Galladon would never marry. Brienne would never have a sister-in-law. Her father would never have a daughter-in-law, nor a son-in-law (though that was no recent revelation).

Selwyn Tarth would never be a grandfather, and that hurt Brienne the most. Her father had lost two babes in the cradle – her two darling sisters – and she knew he’d always relished the opportunity to shower his future grandchildren with all the love he’d been robbed of sharing with Arianne and Alysanne all those years ago.

Brienne couldn’t help but feel she’d let her father down simply by looking as displeasing as she did. She’d always taken it as a given that _she’d_ never be able to make her father a grandfather, though she desired nothing more than to be a mother… but now Galladon could not either.

“Goodness! Silly me,” said Sansa suddenly. “Oh, Brienne, I _am_ sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you so.”

“Not at all,” Brienne managed to say, surprised to find that tears had begun to leak down her face, unbidden. “It _is_ exciting. I’m very happy for you all. Truly.” She brought a sleeve to her eyes and swiped the tears away quite forcefully, embarrassed at her emotional lapse.

“Brienne, could I–?” Podrick appeared from behind Sansa, cutting himself short when he saw the unflattering, tell-tale trail of tears on Brienne’s already unpleasant face. “Wh-Whatever’s the matter?” he asked, looking from Sansa to Brienne and back again.

“Me and my big, fat mouth, Podrick, as usual,” Sansa explained with a guilty expression.

“It’s nothing,” Brienne assured her, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “I suppose I’m just grieving especially hard today. I’ll be fine in a moment or two. What is it you wanted of me, Pod?”

“Oh, I… I wondered if you could help me shift one of the larger ones from the back,” replied Pod, looking sheepish. “It’s a little too heavy for me.”

“Certainly,” Brienne responded, thankful for a distraction. “Please don’t beat yourself up, Sansa. I’ll be fine.”

Sansa smiled gratefully. “I’ll catch up with you later, then. Have a good day. And you, Podrick.”

Pod blushed at her words. “You t-too,” he mumbled, before blessedly leading Brienne away. “S-so, I read in the p-paper this morning that, uh, we’re switching to TNT p-permanently.”

Brienne smiled inwardly; she knew that Pod was carefully trying to lighten her mood by avoiding all potentially-hurtful talk of feelings.

“Yes, I believe so. The army are beginning to favour it over lyddite apparently, so I suspect we’ll slowly start the transition into becoming a TNT-only factory.

“G-gosh. Won’t that be a b-bit arduous?”

“No more so than now. It’s harder to juggle lyddite and TNT together. It’s potentially more dangerous to introduce even more TNT on a daily basis, but it’ll be easier once we’re onto a consistent system, don’t you think?”

“I suppose,” Pod agreed, as he directed her to the shell he’d been struggling with. “Want me to, uh, g-grab one end of it?”

“No, thanks, Podrick. I think I’ve got it. Perhaps you could start shifting some of those ones to the right?”

“Of c-course.”

Brienne set about shifting some of the surrounding shells out of the way to get to the larger one in question.

“Morning, wench.”

Brienne turned to see a leering Jaime Lannister, a playful smirk on his perfect face. Brienne gave him a slight, polite smile.

“I’ve just been speaking to Catelyn’s young ladies,” he continued when she didn’t respond verbally to his greeting. “I don’t suppose _you_ received any letters this weekend? Any distant lovers fighting in a far-off land?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Brienne replied bitterly, turning her back on him to continue her work.

“Who’s being ridiculous? I heard the Pals Battalion sent an enormous stack of mail back home, and I know from experience that a man can get awfully lonely out there without their lady by their side. Isn’t there anybody out there dreaming of coming home to Brienne Tarth’s marvellous eyes?”

“Don’t,” Brienne forced out through gritted teeth, refusing to look at him as her cheeks burned. “You might be my boss, but you have no right to mock me.”

“Mock you?” He was a good actor, she’d give him that. He almost looked offended at the mere notion. “Come now, I meant no ill, wench.” He shrugged, not quite meeting her eyes. “I was just curious.”

Brienne snorted in response. “Curious? I doubt that very much. You’re just like the rest of them.”

“I don’t know who the _rest of them_ are,” he responded defiantly, “but I assure you I am very much _not_ one of them. There are no men like me.”

“No,” Brienne agreed sarcastically, as she finally cleared the path to her intended shell, “you’re positively _singular._

“Forget it,” he snapped, raising his hands in defeat. Brienne turned, raising her gaze to meet his. “I was only trying to make conversation, but I can see now that you have all the sociability of a nasty bout of trench foot.”

He made to shrug past her, but she grabbed at his forearm to stop him. “Sir, I think you’re forgetting something.”

He raised an eyebrow at her boldness. “Care to enlighten me?”

“A cap,” she said pointedly. “Your hair really shouldn’t be out amongst all this TNT.”

“Afraid it’ll turn a more off-putting yellow than your own?” He smirked as Brienne’s reprimanding expression twisted into a scowl. She self-consciously brought her free hand to her head to check that none of her limp hair had fallen out of her cap. “Thanks for the concern, _wench_ , but I think I can do without your constant critique of my accoutrements. Worry about your own job.”

He tore his arm quite abruptly out of Brienne’s hand – which, to her surprise, had (of its own accord) still been holding onto him – and stalked away from her, leaving her irritatingly flustered.

Today was simply not going her way.

Thankfully, Podrick was an utter godsend. He kept her mind occupied – whether or not it was intentional mattered not – by talking nothing but trivial nonsense all morning, expecting nothing more than the occasional _hm_ in response on Brienne’s part for which she was grateful. Their companionship meant a great deal to her at the best of times, but she was particularly thankful for his comforting presence after the emotionally shaky morning she’d had.

And, so, when they returned to work after their lunch break, she turned to him and said, “Fancy a go, then?”

The boyish grin he gave her was all the response she needed.

“So… TNT. It’s a bit different from the lyddite,” Brienne began, as she hoisted a shell onto the worktop in front of him.

Pod nodded eagerly. “B-because it’s p-powder?”

“For a start,” Brienne confirmed. “There’s no cordite in these shells either.”

“Right.”

“Now, you’ll need that bag.” Brienne pointed to the sealed cloth bag she’d placed into Pod’s hands a few minutes earlier. “Open it, and then _very carefully_ pour it into this funnel.”

Pod did as she said with steady hands. “L-like this?”

“Exactly like that.” She smiled. “You’re a natural.”

Pod beamed at her. “Th-thanks.”

“Ok, that should be enough for now. Just hold it there for a moment,” Brienne directed. “Right. Time for the sophisticated bit.” She allowed herself a sarcastic smile as she thrust a broom into Pod’s hands. “You’ve seen others do it, I suppose?”

“Y-yes,” Podrick replied, rotating the broom so its bristles were towards the factory ceiling. “So I j-just…” He pushed the broom handle down into thin air to mimic the action he’d seen so many of the munitionettes perform routinely on a daily basis.

“Stem it? Yes,” said Brienne. “Pour, stem, repeat as needed until it’s full. Go ahead.” She gestured for him to proceed.

She continued her words of encouragement as Pod diligently filled the shell, before she’d have to guide him to attach the detonator to the top with a wooden mallet.

“Here’s the tricky part,” she warned him, as she lined the detonator up for him, the mallet still in her other hand. “You have to use _just_ enough force. Too much and you risk an explosion, too little and it won’t deto–”

“Does this do it for you, wench?” Jaime Lannister’s charming voice interrupted from behind. A jolt of shock ran up Brienne’s spine as he grabbed her arm – in much the same way as she had grabbed his earlier – in an effort to spin her to face him.

The devilishly handsome smirk on his face quickly fell as he came face-to-face with what Brienne was sure must be her most repugnant expression of unconcealed disdain, far from impressed with his blasé attitude towards explosives. She briefly noticed he’d heeded her earlier words and had donned a cap; he pulled it off better than she ever could. _Bastard_ , she thought, as she ripped her arm out of his as though his touch tainted her with his own past crimes. _Only he could make that drab, shapeless piece of cloth look stylish_.

“You _cannot_ go around sneaking up on people in a munitions factory, sir!” she reprimanded, her tone far more vitriolic than she’d ever thought herself capable. Poor Podrick stood awkwardly to the side of them, and, through the corner of her eye, Brienne could see the barely-perceptible, minute movements of his head as he looked back and forth between the pair of them, as though he was frightened of what might come of their current encounter.

“I merely wished to show you I’d acknowledged your earlier words,” Lannister responded, his voice equally standoffish.

“Would you like my congratulations?” Brienne suggested icily. “The bairn _can_ dress himself suitably after all.”

“I–”

“No,” she snapped, holding her hand up authoritatively to cut him off. “Forgive me, sir, but I do believe you need to open your eyes to the potential danger around us. The frontline it might not be, but it could very well be just as lethal in the wrong circumstances. Your lackadaisical approach to supervision simply will no–”

“I thought I’d warned you, wench, no?” Lannister narrowed his emerald eyes at her. “One more word from you and I’ll take great pleasure in sending you packing. I won’t allow you to swan around demanding things of _me_. I’m your supervisor, if I’m not mistaken; _not_ the other way around. And, as your supervisor, I am requesting you do not continue to constantly criticise my very existence. Ok?”

Brienne nodded curtly. Her blood was pounding in her veins at the sudden shift in her mood, and her anger was rising with every word he spoke. Today _really_ wasn’t being kind on her emotions.

“Now, might I ask what exactly is going on over here?” His eyes darted from Brienne and the mallet in her hand, to Pod and the upturned broom in his. “I wasn’t aware I’d set foot in the schoolyard.”

Podrick spoke up bravely in an attempt to mediate the situation. “B-Brienne was ju–”

“ _Brienne_ ,” their arrogant supervisor sneered her name with evident loathing, “was _just_ wasting company time, it seems. Am I right?”

“Um…”

“Eloquent as ever, Payne,” Lannister remarked sarcastically. “Clear off, boy, and get your arse back into gear. _Elsewhere_.”

Brienne gave Pod a small, guilty smile before he walked off with his head down. Seeing his face twist in such disappointment tugged at her heart, and she turned to Lannister to berate him again.

“You shouldn’t talk to him lik–”

“I’ll talk to him however it pleases me,” he asserted, almost daring her to challenge him again. She looked away from his suddenly fierce gaze.

“ _Utterly contemptible man_ ,” Brienne muttered under her breath.

She’d meant to say it internally, silently, but somewhere along the line her brain and her tongue must have crossed wires.

He heard her, and he didn’t take it well.

Stepping closer to her in that somewhat-intimidating, somewhat-magnetising manner that only he possessed, he drawled, “Might I remind you that I have the capacity to make the remainder of your time at this factory _very difficult_ indeed if you refuse to behave yourself in my presence. I certainly would not expect you to address my father the way you address me, and I expect you to extend me the same courtesies you would him. I’ve very quickly grown quite accustomed to your very evident dislike of me, but that does not permit you to take liberties in the workplace. Am I clear?”

Brienne stood her ground, gazing down into his eyes with all the composure she could muster. She _would_ behave herself, but she certainly would not pretend to like him.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good girl,” he quipped, patronising. His lips quirked into a small smirk, before his expression flattened again and he continued more sternly, “Now, whilst you’re fannying about wasting valuable company time trying to teach a child how to play with explosives, you’re putting men’s lives on the line? Do you understand why that _might_ be a problem?”

Brienne opened her mouth to retort, but he continued before the opportunity presented itself to her.

“We have a quota to meet, Miss Tarth, ok? _You_ might have the patience of a saint, but I don’t, and the war _certainly_ doesn’t stop to allow you to live out your classroom fantasies. Do you want to be held accountable for our soldiers being blown to pieces without a hope in hell of defending themselves?”

Though Galladon’s corpse had – thankfully – returned intact, Lannister’s cruel words were a low blow. Brienne’s stomach lurched in response to a sudden, intense onset of renewed grief. She didn’t deign his distasteful question with a response. But that didn’t suit his agenda.

“Well?”

“No.”

“Hm?”

“No, _sir,_ ” she spat. Embarrassingly, she felt tears begin to prick at her eyes again; she had no doubt his words, and the weight of the day’s emotions, were about to get the better of her.

“I assume you don’t need a graphic description of life in the trenches? I can paint a pretty ugly picture for you, wench, if you’d like, though it still mightn’t be a patch on that face of yours.”

Out of nowhere, and in a fit of rage that she could not repress, Brienne swung the wooden mallet that she’d been clutching the whole time down onto the worktop, making Lannister physically jolt in shock.

Or, perhaps, fear.

She did not know, nor did she care.

The pair of them had created quite an audience for themselves amidst all of their carrying on, and the factory floor was quieter than ever as hundreds of pairs of watchful eyes waited to see how it all panned out. Brienne hated being the centre of attention, and she suddenly knew she needed to get out of there.

“Fuck you,” she whispered, as the first of her tears fell down her face. She turned from him in an act of defiance that would most likely secure her unemployment.

“Wench!” She heard him call from behind her as she strode away from him, her tears now freefalling down her cheeks and onto the factory floor. “Brienne,” he tried again more gently when she didn’t respond, but she’d hear no more from him. The footsteps she’d heard behind her slowed to a stop as she stormed out of the door with nary a glance in his direction. He’d make no more cruel quips to her face today.

Perhaps he _never_ would.

Perhaps, come Monday, she wouldn’t have a job to return to. Brienne suspected as much. Perhaps he’d terminate her contract as eagerly as he’d shot down his General.

_No matter_ , she thought easily. She supposed unemployment would be far preferable to constant verbal torment. And there was no way she’d give any further opportunity to a man as dishonourable – as downright _wicked_ – as Jaime Lannister to ever speak to her like that again. He was every bit the contemptible man she’d read about in the papers, and more. Personal digs were one thing, and she’d taken more than her fair share from men and women alike over the years, but _guilting_ her into pinning nameless men’s deaths on her own conscience was crueller than any blow she’d suffered before. It hit much too close to home, and he’d overstepped every line in the book.

Hurt as she was, though, and as much as she hated the feeling of defeat in letting him get to her, Brienne could not seem to tear her thoughts away from him. If she had a job to return to on Monday – and, she feared, it was a big _if_ – she’d do her very best to blend into the background from now on, away from her supervisor and his sharp tongue.

She would not allow Jaime Lannister to take residence in her mind any longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise there is no reference to football in this fic yet, despite its very prominent place in the plot. It _is_ coming, but I want to set everything up properly first so please bear with me x


	4. Amends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, those two months positively flew by... Oops.  
> Here's the fourth chapter to my probably far-too-wordy fic. I have experimented, and I have found that I am simply incapable of doing anything but babbling. Please be honest and tell me if it's annoying to read; I've had a bit of a fall out with my writing identity, and I'm not sure what (if anything) is good and what isn't anymore lmao 🙃
> 
> This chapter is the first from Jaime's POV; I probably won't write too many more from his perspective, but it was kinda enjoyable to write nonetheless!!

His calloused fingers toyed with the splintering imperfections on his wooden prosthetic as he waited for her, as guilty as a man could be.

After sleep had evaded him completely for the third time in as many nights, Jaime Lannister had hauled himself out of bed for a somewhat reluctant early morning jog in a bid to rouse him from the consuming drowsiness. He’d hoped it might be the perfect opportunity to rid himself of the lingering guilt that had haunted his every thought all weekend, but he’d found that it merely gave him more time to continue to fret over his shameful behaviour towards the dour Brienne Tarth on Friday.

Stubborn, pigheaded and righteous as she was, he knew he’d crossed a line when she’d cursed at him and stormed off in tears. The wounded expression on her face somehow worsened every time he recalled it (knowing now what he didn’t then regarding her bereavement), and the dirty looks and disgruntled huffs from every damned one of her colleagues suggested he’d fucked up beyond repair. They were unfathomably fond of Miss Tarth, and understandably appalled by Jaime. But who could blame them?

He’d been a pillock.

Plain and simple.

Riling old blue eyes up the wrong way had certainly not made for the most successful of first weeks on the job, and apparently even his subconscious had no intention of letting Jaime forget his entirely inappropriate conduct.

He was in deep shit, and he knew it.

So, in his father’s factory at the crack of dawn, he anxiously paced the factory floor in wait of Miss Tarth and her impressively wide shoulders. Truthfully, he wouldn’t hold it against her if she chose never to return, but something told him that she was much too strong – and much too proud – to allow a man as worthless as him to get one over on her.

Hells, he’d known her all of one week, but he was confident in his assessment of the woman; already he felt he knew enough about her demeanour to write a bloody good character reference for her.

Perhaps he’d need to.

_No, she’ll be here._

Jaime was so certain he would likely stake his life on it.

Brienne _Dependable-As-Ever_ Tarth.

His heart skipped three beats at the sudden sensation of a hand on his shoulder, but he turned – relieved? disappointed? – to find that the hand belonged to someone much shorter than he, and much fairer than Miss Tarth.

“Can I help you with anything, uh… Alyce, was it?”

“Yes, sir,” said the petite woman, with feigned coyness and a shrill giggle. “You remembered.”

Jaime shifted slightly, uncomfortable with their improper proximity. “I’m doing my best to remember every one of my employees’ names,” he said. He knew his go-to charming smile was somewhat less dazzling than usual as he forced it onto his face, but Alyce seemed none the wiser. “You should probably get going whilst you can anyway. The morning shift will be in soon, and you know we don’t pay you overtime.”

“Shame,” she purred. “I wouldn’t mind working extra hours for you.”

Jaime resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Working in a factory full of young women might just be the death of him. “That’s a very generous offer; I’ll bear it in mind should we have any staffing issues down the line.” He reached to pry her hand from where it had come to rest on his bicep. “Thank you for your hard work, Miss Waters, bu–”

As the doors to the factory floor flew open, Jaime dropped Alyce’s hand as though he’d been scalded. Nobody other than _her_ ever turned up to the morning shift this early.

In strode Brienne Tarth ( _of course_ ) who halted to a startled stop as her exquisite eyes met Jaime’s own.

_Dependable. As. Ever._

“Miss Tarth.” He moved a step in her direction, casting Alyce aside as he did so.

The giant woman merely nodded at him in response. Too respectfully for Jaime’s liking.

She looked almost timid. Afraid.

It was all wrong.

“Sir.” She lowered her eyes to the floor, and Jaime found himself missing the sight of their blue immediately.

He wanted her ire.

He _deserved_ her ire.

It was an impossibility that anything about her frame might ever be considered small, but somehow that’s exactly how she appeared to him. She held herself tense, as if in wait of the next harsh quip to come out of his mouth: already anticipating and defending the blow in advance.

He took another decided step towards her, but before he could even begin to recall the profuse, eloquent apology he’d been rehearsing all weekend – let alone utter a solitary word of it – she’d taken a step away from him, and then another, and then another, until she’d made her way over to the shells at the back, ready to start her working day as though nothing had even transpired on Friday.

As though Jaime hadn’t cruelly torn her grieving heart open with his sharp Lannister tongue for no good reason.

Hells, a fully-trained Podrick Payne might be an asset to the factory in the long run. Who was Jaime to turn down an extra pair of hands in the middle of a war, all in the name of some spiteful tiff with some woman? The very essence of the matter had become painfully clear to Jaime: whilst he was her boss, _she_ had the upperhand… and he hated it.

Hated her.

_No_ …That wasn’t quite it.

He hated the job, and he hated the position he’d been put in. He hated his own accursed actions that had lumped him in this godsforsaken factory in the first place. Brienne Tarth just happened to be particularly skilled, particularly competent, and particularly anal when it came to the very workplace that he was supposed to be in command of. But he didn't hate her. Perhaps he felt threatened, or perhaps he felt belittled.

Perhaps it didn’t matter. None of it was her fault.

It had been a peculiar week, yet oddly enjoyable – if one took Friday out of consideration. Jaime had taken great pleasure in winding the woman up earlier in the week with his "wench" jibes, and he’d come to welcome her snappy retorts. She’d bested him every time, of course, and perhaps therein lay the reason for Jaime’s wholly uncalled-for dirty tactics on Friday. Their back and forth had very quickly become an engaging sport to him, and he was determined to win one of their verbal spars _fairly_ – without foul play – and to do that, he needed her back onside.

He admired her.

The Tarth girl had treated him more like a human being than anybody had since the fateful Targaryen incident. Most people now either feared him, or despised him, or both. He was distrustful and dishonourable, and people often tended to roll over for him in order to remain on his “good” side.

Those who didn’t fear him – those who suspected there was more to the story than that which the press reported – tended to bend over backwards for him in a different way. Those people pitied him instead. They pitied his prosthetic, and they overcompensated by trying to do every _godsdamned_ thing for him, as though he were a complete invalid.

Jaime was beyond tired of people tiptoeing around him.

But then came Brienne Tarth. She who was the very first person to see beyond the convict, _beyond the cripple_ , and give back as good as she got in an argument. If she didn’t already despise him, she certainly did now – not that Jaime would blame her – but he was desperate for any drop of normality she might bestow on him. And if that meant making a blithering fool of himself in order to win her forgiveness, then that’s just what he’d have to do.

He followed her.

Standing beside her, her back to him, he marvelled at her wide frame for what must now be the hundredth time. She was sturdy and she was strong and she _knew_ the extent of her body’s capabilities . Jaime had admired those qualities in many of the men he’d served with, but never before in a woman. No woman was built quite like her, it seemed; Jaime couldn’t help but be fascinated by her bodily singularity.

He watched the way she bent her knees to hoist the shell into her arms as effortlessly as if it were a newborn babe, and he followed the straightening of her thick legs to the straightening of her spine and took in her full height once again. She was a colossus. Tall, and proud, and solid.

She turned and walked straight into him.

_Yep. Definitely solid._

Her eyes widened in surprise, and Jaime observed the gradual flush of her cheeks turn from pink to red to crimson. “Oh, excuse me! I am sorry.”

“Miss Tarth.”

She shuffled her feet awkwardly, as she clutched the shell to her chest as if it were a shield between them. “I do apologise, sir, I had no idea you were there.” 

“Your apologies are hardly necessary. I caught you offguard, therefore the fault is mine.”

The girl nodded once, the colour of her cheeks still somehow deepening. “I’ll be more careful next time,” she muttered, before trying to step around him.

“Brienne.”

Jaime moved into her path once again, and she looked down at him, startled. He was determined to get this over and done with before other people turned up to interfere.

“I won’t demand a second more of your time, but I’d appreciate just a moment to apologise to you at the very least.”

“No apologies are necessary.” She looked beyond him longingly, as if she couldn’t wait to be anywhere else but there with him.

Jaime waited until she met his gaze again. “You and I both know that they are.”

He saw a certain fear in her eyes, magnified in the depthless blue.

In that moment, she looked every bit the young woman she was, and he felt every bit the horrifying man most people thought him.

“I had… no idea about your brother.” He knew it was pathetic, but it was a start. “That’s no excuse for the way I behaved towards you, but please know that I am sorry. I don’t expect your forgiveness, but you deserved an apology nonetheless.”

She looked down again. “Perhaps I owe you one too.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, wench. You owe me nothing,” Jaime argued.

“I spoke to you rather unfairly too, th–”

“That’s not even remotely the s– ”

“Just hear me out,” she snapped, her now-irritated gaze back on his.

“Please,” she added as polite afterthought. “Listen... I thank you for choosing not to terminate my contract on this occasion, but I think it might be best for the whole factory that the two of us do our best to avoid one another in future. I appreciate the apology, but I fear we clash all too easily and it's unfair on everyone else to have to witness our bickering, so maybe we should just… leave each other to it.” Her eyes widened slightly before she hurriedly continued. “I mean no offence by it, I assure you. I just... I think it might be easier in the long run. For everyone. What do you say?”

Jaime thought that sounded like the worst proposal he’d ever heard, but he couldn’t very well come out and say that to her. She had no idea how refreshing he had found their interactions, and he'd done nothing to suggest anything of the sort.

Instead, he nodded wordlessly, and she smiled a crooked but polite smile to settle matters. Her features didn’t complement each other at all, and she certainly had an unfortunate face for a girl of her age, but… something about the shy smile was endearing nonetheless.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Jaime agreed aloud, although his inner voice immediately began compiling a list of things he could do to ensure he would prove her _wrong._ He wasn’t entirely sure why, but having to stay out of her way sounded like the worst prospect of all.

He’d just have to figure something out.

“I suppose that's settled, then." He plastered what he hoped was a convincing smile on his face. “Good day. I hope you have a pleasant one, Miss Tarth.”

“Thank you, Mr Lannister. You too,” she replied politely before finally stepping around him. Her gait, Jaime was relieved to see, was noticeably lighter than it had been before their conversation.

Already on the right tracks, Jaime found himself damned determined to ensure that _he_ would be the one to make her day a pleasant one.

>>><<<

Startled by his sudden arrival, Jaime could have sworn he saw Podrick Payne’s feet momentarily leave the ground as he jolted in shock.

“M-Mr Lannister,” he fumbled the words out.

“Master Payne. How are you today?” Jaime flashed him a charming smile

Podrick’s eyes twitched warily. “M-Me?”

“Is there another Master Payne in this room?”

The boy’s eyes darted around the small kitchenette. “Th-There’s nobody else in this r-room, sir.”

Jaime continued to look at him, expectant.

“Oh! I-I’m fine, th-thank you for asking,” Podrick managed eventually, before adding “S-Sir,” as an afterthought.

“I’m pleased to hear it. And I believe _you’ll_ be pleased to hear that myself and Miss Tarth have patched things over, so to speak. I must say, I commend your loyalty to the lady.”

Podrick’s already flushed face darkened, but he stood up tall. “Sh-She’s the best.”

Jaime smiled. That much was becoming increasingly clear to him. “It appears you’re not the only one in the factory who believes so.”

On Friday, Catelyn Stark had been the first to explicitly rebuke Jaime for his behaviour towards the Tarth girl. Many of the other, younger girls looked like they wished to say something too, but daren’t.

Podrick Payne, however – against all odds – _had_ dared.

Jaime had been able to do nothing but stand there, bewildered, on the receiving end of the usually-timid boy’s vocal and brave display of allegiance.

He’d requested that Jaime blame him for the spontaneous tutorial, then he’d begged him not to fire Miss Tarth, and then he’d actually _demanded_ that Jaime learn to be a nicer man.

Jaime had only been able to nod, rendered entirely mute.

Somehow, he’d managed to make Podrick Payne – the shy, trembling boy – appear a courageous, loquacious man.

Jaime himself had appeared weak and defeated. Nothing short of an embarrassment.

“You know, Podrick, I do believe I overheard Sansa Stark enquiring as to your whereabouts earlier.”

“S-Sansa?” The boy blushed.

“Yes. I think she rather admired your courage last week. Perhaps you should go find her.”

“B-But I–”

“Go. See what she wants,” Jaime insisted. He had his own plan to fulfil, and it very much depended on Payne's absence. “I’ll keep your Miss Tarth company in the meantime.”

At the look on Podrick’s face, he added, “I promise to be nothing short of a gentleman. I took your words on board. I assure you, I _can_ be nice.”

“Ok…” Podrick looked doubtful, but the glow on his cheeks suggested Sansa’s sudden interest in him wasn’t unrequited, and Jaime knew he'd come out the victor. “G-Guess I’ll see you on the f-floor then. Sir.”

“Ta-ra,” Jaime said with faux enthusiasm, raising his prosthetic in farewell.

Podrick left the room and Jaime let out a deep sigh of relief.

He’d sorted the immediate Podrick issue out, but the pressing Tarth issue was going to be a more long-term project. It was laughable, he thought as his heart began to race with nerves, that he – a man who’d never allowed any particular individual to really get under his skin – was making such a fuss over Brienne Tarth of all people.

She was perhaps the homeliest person he’d ever come across, and certainly more obstinate than anyone he’d ever known.

It was inexplicable, then, that _she_ should be the first lady to make him feel anxious.

His plan of attack involved hijacking her habitual pot of tea with Podrick whilst the rest of the factory – men and women – engaged in recreational football in the yard during their break. He mentally ticked _Get rid of Payne_ off his to-do list, and then moved onto _Prepare pot of tea as a peace offering_ ; there were a number of indeterminate steps until he reached _Secure her trust_ , but Jaime had yet to decide how he might achieve that seemingly impossible feat. He was, however, becoming increasingly eager to win her over.

Tea was a good start.

Or at least he hoped it was.

By the time she walked in, the tea was already steeping.

“I say, Podrick, what a hectic morni– _Oh._ ” She cut herself off, holding herself stiff in the doorway as if she might flee at any moment. Clearly she hadn't been expecting him.

“Miss Tarth.” Jaime tried to smile at her, but it felt much too awkward on his face. Was he _nervous_? “Please. Don’t feel you must leave on my account.”

She continued to look at him with wide eyes, chewing at her lip.

“Stay,” he said, as if commanding an insolent dog. He regretted his tone immediately, and she continued to hover uncertainly in the doorway.

He gestured to the table before him, but she made no movement towards it. _This was never going to be easy_ , he reminded himself a he restrategised. He raised an empty cup to her in what he hoped was the least threatening manner manageable, and tried again to smile at her – this time more naturally. _There_ , he praised himself internally, _that wasn’t so difficult, was it?_

“Tea?” he asked, with an attempt to sound chipper.

“Um.” She paused, evidently confused. “Please?” Thought she sounded unsure, Jaime was relieved to see her take a step towards the table. “Milk, no sugar,” she told him.

“Certainly.”

The silence was thick between them as Jaime set to work readying their tea. He’d been doing well in recent weeks to develop a greater dexterity in his left hand, but today his nerves were not playing ball. He clumsily faffed around with the teapot, before nearly swiping the cups off the counter with his prosthetic. “ _Shit_ ,” he murmured under his breath. He noticed she was watching him closely, and he let out an uncharacteristically nervous laugh. “Useless thing,” he said as he waved his wooden hand at her.

She smiled somewhat awkwardly, but Jaime was pleased to find no ounce of pity in it.

He continued to fumble, picking at the foil lid atop the glass milk bottle with little success, cursing himself for believing this might ever be a good idea.

Eventually, he placed her tea on a coaster before her. “One tea with milk, no sugar,” he announced weakly, still irritated by his own slowness.

“Thank you,” she murmured, as Jaime turned to pick his own cup off the counter.

“It’s my pleasure,” he returned, as he dropped into his own seat with a sigh of relief.

Sitting so close to her, across the little table, he could make out tiny flecks of silver glittering in the astonishing azure of her irises. Her eyebrows were knitted together – her scepticism written plainly across her face.

“Perhaps this is how we should have started,” he began, eager to ease the heavy tension. “With tea.”

When she showed no signs of replying, he raised his cup to his lips to gain some time to prepare his next words, but it was much too soon to drink the tea and he burnt his tongue in the process. “ _Shit,_ ” he cursed again.

Brienne’s lips twitched in amusement as he lowered his cup back to the coaster, and Jaime couldn’t help but smile at her in return. At the sight of his grin, though, she began to eye him warily again. She really wasn’t a pretty looking thing at all, but Jaime found he was quite drawn to the upward quirk of her full lips. He found himself absurdly disappointed when she pressed them back together tersely.

Clearly at a loss, Brienne picked up her own tea and began to blow on it sensibly. Jaime watched her lips pucker as she blew gently on the steaming tea, and again marvelled how somebody so ugly could have so many features which – individually – were _categorically_ Not Ugly.

Perhaps the only feature that was truly unfortunate was her nose: at least twice-broken, if not thrice. It was wide, extrusive, and covered in freckles.

Her eyes, however, and her plump lips, and her prominent cheekbones... Together, they made an uncoordinated mess, Jaime supposed frankly, but he found he could admire them individually. Regardless, he seemed to be developing a strange fondness for her countenance as a whole anyway.

It was her splotchy reddening cheeks that finally alerted Jaime to the fact he had been scrutinising her face for much longer than was considered polite. She blew on her tea self-consciously - hiding her face but doing little to disguise her blush – and Jaime dropped his eyes to spare her further embarrassment.

“I _am_ still after that truce, Miss Tarth, by the way. I’d like it a lot.”

“Oh?” Her voice was small.

“Is there _anything_ I might do to make it into your good books? Anything at all?” Jaime hated his audible desperation.

“I could not possibly say,” she murmured. “But–”

“But there is a chance? A small one?” Jaime pressed.

“I’d never say never, but… I suppose I question how we might ever get on. We don’t exactly have much in common.”

Her words were a crushing blow.

It was clear to Jaime what _that_ meant.

She was good, and he was… well, he wasn’t _good._

“I understand.” Jaime nodded, disappointed. “I suppose it goes against your innate goodness to even be seen talking to someone like me.”

“My-? Please don’t mock me,” she snapped, sounding hurt. “Not again.”

She tried to push her chair out from under the table, but Jaime responded faster, hooking his ankles around the legs of her chair to hold her firmly in place. He tried to ignore the heat of her own long legs now pressed against his beneath the small table.

He tried even harder to ignore the way his cock responded to the sudden, improper contact.

Taking a shuddery breath, he looked into her eyes. “I wasn’t mocking you,” he assured her. “Sincerely. You _are_ good. I might’ve only known you all of a week, but the number of colleagues you had fighting your corner on Friday was a testament to that goodness. It was cruel of me to behave that way towards you when you'd done nothing to deserve even half of what I said. I'm ashamed, and... I’m determined to make amends. Properly.”

“You’ve already done the whole apology thing,” she murmured, her legs shifting slightly against his as she spoke. Her own blush told Jaime he wasn’t the only one affected by their legs pressed together beneath the table.

“I have, but that’s not really enough, is it? I suppose friendship is a lot to ask of you – and the gods know I’d be foolish to even entertain such an idea at this point – but perhaps we can be civil? I don’t know about you, but I’d find working life much easier if I didn’t have to hide behind a corner every time I clocked you.”

Brienne’s lips twitched slightly at that. “I can be civil.”

Jaime beamed at her. “Splendid. Let's begin now.” He reached into his pocket where he’d stashed something earlier with a hopeful heart. “Chocolate?” he offered as he clumsily tried to break the squares apart, using his prosthetic to hold the block in place.

Jaime saw the confusion reappear on her face.

“Don’t tell me – you’re sweet enough?”

“No, I–” she retorted flustered. “I just didn’t expect… this.”

Jaime found himself again smiling at her uncertainty. Reluctantly, he pulled his legs away from hers – confident that she wasn’t going to flee any time soon – and slid three of the five pieces of chocolate across the table towards her. “For you, Miss Tarth.”

Her blush appeared to Jaime no longer an unsightly, blotchy red, but a pleasant, rewarding rouge; it was bizarrely appealing, and it was all the _thank you_ Jaime needed as he watched her savour that first taste of chocolate.

He pushed his own two squares around the table absentmindedly with his prosthetic before he spoke again, less confident this time. “Was it recent?” he dared to ask. “Your brother, I mean.”

He waited with baited breath for her to display some sign of offence at his forwardness, but if she felt any, she did nothing to show it. He watched as she continued to chew the chocolate, before swallowing it and stunning him with her astonishing eyes once again.

“Yes and no.” She sighed before elaborating, as if steeling herself for a fight. “He was missing for a great deal of time before they discovered his body. We buried him the day before you took up your post here, but I suppose we’ve been mourning him since the day we heard he was missing.”

“We?”

“My father and I. I think we knew all along that he was never coming home, but even despite that… I still feel I have more grief left inside me somehow.”

“That’s only natural,” Jaime reassured her, and he felt his hand moving towards her as if to comfort her. Before he reached her own hand, he thought better of it and drew his back, forming a fist on the table to prevent him from reaching out again. Brienne must have noticed his intention too, as her gaze locked onto his fist and her brows furrowed together. Jaime didn't allow himself any time to ponder her reaction.

“Were the two of you close?”

“Extremely.” Brienne nodded sadly. “He was my very best friend. I miss him awfully.”

Jaime smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry. We can discuss something else if it’s upsetting you.”

“No… It’s strangely nice to talk about him… Almost feels like I’m keeping his memory alive.”

“Well I’m happy to listen if it helps at all. It’s always a pleasure to hear about a fellow soldier.”

Brienne eyed him strangely, and he knew the words he'd chosen were the wrong ones. Reminding her of his own calamitous time in the trenches would certainly bring no good to his cause.

“I don’t mean to pry,” he mumbled apologetically. “I thought it might benefit you to talk about him, but perhaps I’m not the right set of ears for this conversation.”

“No. No,” she said. “Not at all. It’s not tha–” She cut herself off, taking a deep breath before continuing as normal, “He was a lot like me. Slightly taller. Not much wider. _Much_ less stubborn. Everybody loved him.”

Her whole face lit up as she talked of him fondly, and Jaime smiled at her, thrilled that she was beginning to relax into the conversation. He brought a bit of chocolate to his lips as he listened to her tell a story about their youth, and then another about how they used to be mistaken for twins.

“Ah. Not all it’s cracked up to be, I'm afraid,” Jaime said with a wry grin. “My twin sister and I used to pretend to be one another when we were younger, but we… Well, we’re not close anymore.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s for the best. I won’t pretend to have a good relationship with my family,” Jaime explained. “Not the adults anyway... Don't forget your tea, Miss Tarth.” He reminded her, smiling.

“Goodness, I forgot all about it; I've been too busy babbling away.” She reached for her tea. “I wasn't aware you had children.”

“Oh, they’re not mine, but I love them as if they were,” Jaime clarified. “My niece and neph–”

A sudden slam on the window stopped Jaime midspeech, and startled Brienne so much that her tea sloshed all the way down her front, much to her embarrassment.

“Are you alright?” Jaime asked hurried, afraid she’d burnt herself.

“I’ll have to get changed, but I think I’ll survive.” Brienne laughed at herself as her face turned red, and Jaime felt his stomach swoop inexplicably at the sight of her embarrassed and uncertain smile.

He coughed slightly, realising he was staring again, and asked, “What _was_ that?”

“A football. They aim for the windows quite a lot. I can’t count the amount of times Pod and I have jumped out of our seats. We pour tea down ourselves more often than not when they strike the target. It's no big deal.”

Jaime looked at the window impressed that anybody at the factory could hit such a small target. “I bet I could hit it,” Jaime said arrogantly.

“I know I could,” Brienne replied, less arrogant but still sure of herself.

“You play?” he asked, eager to take advantage of this new common ground.

“Not recently, but I used to play with Gal and his friends,” she explained. “Obviously not to _your_ standards. You were a professional, right?”

Jaime nodded smugly. “Correct. Centre-forward. Best days of my life.”

“You should join them out there,” Brienne suggested. “It might make your time here more enjoyable.”

“I’m beginning to enjoy my time here already,” Jaime said, and she blushed at the implication. “Besides, they wouldn’t want to play with me.”

“Of course they would! You have real experience.”

“I have a history,” Jaime corrected. “They can try, but they won’t ever forget it. Nobody does.”

She gave him an apologetic half-smile. “You can't really blame them...”

Jaime felt his heart sink, but he tried to wave his disappointment off. Of course she thought the worst of him; she, like everybody else, was unaware of what had truly transpired.

Thankfully, the bell rang to signal a return to the factory floor, and he stood up rather abruptly.

“Forget it,” he muttered. “It’s my own doing.”

Brienne remained seated, looking at him warily again. _Oh, s_ _even hells_.

“You should go and get changed,” he suggested, changing the subject and smiling slightly at her to try to ease the sudden tension he'd created.

“But we’re due down right away. I don’t have the time.”

“I’m giving you time,” he told her. “As your supervisor, I insist. You can’t work in soiled garments, can you?”

“You read the handbook?” Brienne queried, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“I might have.” He smirked at her. “Couldn’t have you stealing my spotlight all the time now, could I?”

She rose from her seat, the combination of her blush and her smile brightening up her face.

“We should do this again some time.” He gestured to their empty cups.

Brienne nodded politely at him, but didn't verbally express any desire to do so.

Jaime felt a little disheartened until she joked with him. “I suppose I'll see you on the floor, then?” she asked nervously. “I don’t expect you to hide from me anymore...”

“Of course. Nor should you feel you must hide from me.” Jaime smiled, victorious.

 _Well, that wasn't a_ total _disaster at least_ , he thought to himself.

Maybe _Secure her trust_ might not be such a long shot after all.


End file.
